The long, black hearse sat in the shade of the leafy willows, unnoticed in the quiet, upscale neighbourhood. Like a panther surveying its prey, watchful behind the tinted glass, undercover officer Mitchell Morgan scrutinized the surroundings, ever conscious of the contents in the back.
Mouth parched, complete with a tongue as dry as sand, Mitchell tilted the water bottle slowly and swallowed, enjoying the moist coolness as it trickled down his throat. Satisfied, he slumped farther in the leather seat, aware of the children in the driveway on the corner, the stooped, elderly man picking weeds in the yard nearby, the teen across the street who sat hunched over his DS, on the front concrete step, looking bored.
The holstered cell next to his leg vibrated an insistent stutter, shattering the serene atmosphere. Mitch spared the screen a brief glance.
Blocked.
Without air conditioning, beads of sweat coasted from his brow, under his shades and into his eye, stinging and obscuring his vision. He blinked several times to clear the fog and pressed the accept key.
Three quick, muted tones preceded a double click, to indicate a secure line. A small thrill travelled along his nervous system, leaving a wake of gooseflesh.
“Nine-one-three-Q-R-two-two-E-D-U.” Only after he gave his code would dispatch relay the encrypted message.
“Funeral procession to start,” replied a robotic voice. “All pallbearers to the church.”
A long high-pitched tone pierced his ear. He moved the phone away and severed the connection.
He held the phone level with the steering wheel. His thumb smeared across the face of the cell leaving a greased streak on the screen, while his heart slowed. Within an instant his mind refocused to what was to come next. His left hand moved to smooth his beard. Months of building a case and gathering evidence had come down to this moment.
He turned the engine over and banged the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “Game on.”
Mouth parched, complete with a tongue as dry as sand, Mitchell tilted the water bottle slowly and swallowed, enjoying the moist coolness as it trickled down his throat. Satisfied, he slumped farther in the leather seat, aware of the children in the driveway on the corner, the stooped, elderly man picking weeds in the yard nearby, the teen across the street who sat hunched over his DS, on the front concrete step, looking bored.
The holstered cell next to his leg vibrated an insistent stutter, shattering the serene atmosphere. Mitch spared the screen a brief glance.
Blocked.
Without air conditioning, beads of sweat coasted from his brow, under his shades and into his eye, stinging and obscuring his vision. He blinked several times to clear the fog and pressed the accept key.
Three quick, muted tones preceded a double click, to indicate a secure line. A small thrill travelled along his nervous system, leaving a wake of gooseflesh.
“Nine-one-three-Q-R-two-two-E-D-U.” Only after he gave his code would dispatch relay the encrypted message.
“Funeral procession to start,” replied a robotic voice. “All pallbearers to the church.”
A long high-pitched tone pierced his ear. He moved the phone away and severed the connection.
He held the phone level with the steering wheel. His thumb smeared across the face of the cell leaving a greased streak on the screen, while his heart slowed. Within an instant his mind refocused to what was to come next. His left hand moved to smooth his beard. Months of building a case and gathering evidence had come down to this moment.
He turned the engine over and banged the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “Game on.”